


Improvisation

by ShinySherlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, F/M, Golly, Missing Scene, Mollstrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-30 13:38:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1019275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShinySherlock/pseuds/ShinySherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg takes Molly home after the Christmas party at 221b.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Improvisation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Beth Hutchinson](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Beth+Hutchinson).



> Thank you to wiggleofjudas for truly wonderful beta work and always being there when I need them. <3

Greg frowned at Sherlock's back as Sherlock disappeared to the rear of the flat, John following behind him. Jeanette and Mrs. Hudson fluttered around Molly.

"Are you all right, dear?"

"You did just the right thing, calling him out like that."

Molly looked down at her shoes and tried to speak. "It's really--"

"You know how he is, he doesn't mean to be hurtful--"

"That doesn't excuse it."

"Thank you, Jeanette; I don't think it's necessary to--"

"Please." The firm tone of Molly's voice stopped their flapping. She looked around and set down her wine glass on the little table next to John's armchair. "I think I'd just like to go home."

Mrs. Hudson nodded, her eyes full of concern. "If you think that's best, dear."

"I do," Molly answered. Greg set down his own glass and followed Molly over to the door, holding her coat as she slid her bare arms into it. He took his own coat from the rack, and they mirrored each other's movements as they put on their scarves.

"I'll walk with you, if that's all right," Greg offered, no longer keen to stay.

Molly answered without looking at him. "Yes. Thank you."

"Now there's a gentleman," Mrs. Hudson twittered, and Greg gave her a tight smile. His hand gravitated to the small of Molly's back, and no one said Merry Christmas as he followed her out to the landing and down the stairs.

At the front door, she fumbled with her pockets.

"Calling a cab?" he asked.

"Yeah," she answered, still not looking at him.

"I drove; give you a lift, if you like?"

She nodded.

He opened the door for her, and the cold air burst in, cutting through their coats and scarves. Molly's legs were bare and shivering beneath the edge of her coat as she and Greg navigated the pavement, a light snow falling over the city.

Greg tucked Molly into his car, then slid into the driver's seat and turned the engine on. They startled as the stereo blared; Greg scrambled to silence it and cringed as he mumbled, "Sorry, sorry."

Her smile was small, but he saw it.

He had seen Molly many times, of course--chatting over corpses, peering over reports, and, since John had come into the picture, occasionally at 221b--but he had never seen her like this.

She was quiet. Not sad, exactly, but somehow fragile and strong at the same time.

Sherlock had been awful, even for him; his apology had helped somewhat, as it appeared to be sincere, but the damage had already been done. And there had been no apology for Greg, of course.

 _Damn_.

Greg had really convinced himself that things were all sorted this time. But the slim odds of Sherlock being wrong, combined with Greg's own gut feeling, made all his efforts at reconciliation suddenly ridiculous, and Greg laughed at himself.

"What?" Molly asked.

And because it was the first word she'd said to him since leaving, he answered. "I don't know why I even bothered trying to patch things up yet again with her. She's not going to change."

Molly looked at him. "Don't let what Sherlock said be the reason you don't try."

"No, he didn't say anything I didn't already suspect, but... yeah, he could've been a bit more tactful about it," Greg said.

"He doesn't mean to--" She stopped herself. When Greg glanced at her, her mouth was set in a firm line.

He looked forward. "Listen. How about we don't talk about Sherlock, or John, or any of that lot. We're interesting people, right? There's got to be loads we can talk about without resorting to that."

Molly sat quietly for a moment, long enough that Greg thought perhaps they didn't have anything to talk about other than the serial drama that was 221b Baker Street.

"I don't like The Clash," Molly blurted.

Greg's mouth popped open. "What?"

"I'm sorry!" Molly cringed a little in her seat.

"My God, kick a man while he's down!"

"I'm sorry," she repeated, but she was also trying not to giggle, and he smiled at her.

"All right, fine. Tell us, what do you like, then?"

Molly liked New Wave and pop and 1920's jazz.  She was elaborating and explaining, and humming bits, and Greg thought he'd done a good deed just now, getting her mind off the unpleasantness as he drove her home through the whitening streets.

"There's a coffee shop round the corner from me, a group plays there every Tuesday night. You should come. It's really a different thing heard live, you know," she said as he pulled up in front of her building.

"Oh, yeah. I'd like that," Greg said, surprising himself that he meant it, having never before thought of spending time with her, just her, outside of work. But the idea of sitting in a cafe with her--they'd both wear jeans and sit off to the side, and her slender fingers would wrap around her cup as they listened--floated in his mind and then anchored itself.

"Well. Thank you," she said.

He shook his head. "Of course."

He turned off the engine and popped out of the car, walking around to hold the door open for her, offering his arm when he saw her step carefully onto the snow-covered sidewalk in her high heels.

He walked beside her up the three steps to her front door.

"Well. Goodnight, then, I guess," Molly said with a hint of nervous laughter. "Unless you--"

"Oh--"

"No, of course, it's--"

"No, I mean, I could, I suppose--"

"Maybe it's late--"

"Oh, maybe so."

Molly laughed, then, and Greg grinned at her. "Goodnight, Molly," he said, his arm still linked with hers as they faced each other.

"Goodnight, Detective Inspector."

"Oh, no, that won't do."

She smiled and waggled her head a bit. She looked up at him, her eyes dark and shining in the lamp light. "Goodnight, Greg."

She moved forward as though to kiss his cheek, but Greg was out of practice and though he meant to aim for her opposite cheek, he overcorrected.

His lips met hers in an ungraceful bump, and though he heard her inhale sharply, she didn't move away.

He could have pulled away.

Made a joke and apologized.

He did neither.

He let his lips rest warm against hers, could almost feel her thinking what to do. His body held perfectly still, and then thrilled to feel her lips press back in return.  She tasted of lipstick and wine, her lips smooth and pliant beneath his as he gave her one more chaste kiss.

Mostly chaste.

In the neighborhood of chaste.

For the most part.

They seemed to pull away at the same moment, and Molly looked down, clearing her throat a little.

Greg was fairly certain she'd draw a line now, perhaps subtly, backpedaling to calling him "Detective Inspector", establishing their boundaries -- _as well she should; you're still married, you bastard_ , his brain interjected. And yet he couldn't bring himself to apologize.

"Well. Goodnight then," he said, gaze darting from her forehead to her cheek to her chin, not meaning to avoid her eyes and yet managing to.

She stared at him until his eyes finally met hers.

"Goodnight, Greg."

_Well. All right, then._

He smiled and looked down at his shoes. They unwound their arms, and he stepped down one stair.

"Merry Christmas."

She smiled back, her hand reaching back to open her door. "Merry Christmas."

She pushed inside. He waited until she closed the door and he heard her turn the lock, and then he was stepping down and back to the car, folding himself into it.

He watched the snowflakes float lazily down. Affix themselves to the windscreen.

Greg turned on the car and pulled away from the curb, humming "Bye, Bye, Blackbird" as he thought about improvisation, truth, and coffee.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for Beth Hutchinson, who requested "Greg/Molly"; [I just found out that Beth passed away last night](http://sherlock-seattle.tumblr.com/post/65145063271/it-is-with-a-heavy-heart-that-i-write-this-post-to). I didn't know her, really--I only knew she was a fellow Sherlockian going through something awful; I saw a post about her on the sherlock-seattle blog and I emailed her a week ago and offered her a ficlet. She seemed sweet and grateful for the offer even though she never got a chance to read it. I'm posting it in her honor.


End file.
